F*ck Club: Con Page 4

His body shuddered.

  Knees trembled.

  He could see her with her back against the wall, eyes going wide as he boosted her up and pushed inside. All lush, sweet curves and soft, smooth skin.

  If he kissed her, how would she taste?

  He pumped harder, faster.

  Dark and seductive, he decided. That’s how she’d taste. No sweet, light, tempting little-girl taste and nothing flirty and floral, either. But like a woman, one who knew what she wanted and how.

  Her tongue would slide over his.

  Her hands would fist in his hair.

  His hand all but pistoned now, moving up and down in a rhythm that had gone rough and primal.

  He came, chest heaving, eyes blind.

  He continued to stroke, eyes full of the image of a woman who wasn’t there.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  * * * * * *

  She was in his kitchen. His loft only had three rooms—one big living area that was both living room, kitchen and dining room, then his bedroom and a giant bathroom. He’d put long, hard months into designing his place. After their parents had died, Riley had done his best to keep their home stable, but it hadn’t been…home. Not like it used to be.

  Sometimes Con thought it would have been better if Riley had just let the bank take the house.

  Sure, their childhood had been wrapped up in it, but that didn’t mean it was happy.

  As it was, the house was now rented out to a young couple with kids.

  Con and Riley took turns doing the repairs that were needed and Con had to admit, the place was happier than it had been in a long time.

  This was his place—where he had put down roots, of a sort.

  He didn’t plan on living in the loft forever, but it was home, for now.

  He’d stayed in a cheap, one-room apartment for years, saving every damn penny until he could afford what he really wanted, and then he’d busted his ass to make this place into the reflection of what he’d seen in his memory.

  As Shawntelle sipped from a glass of water and studied his CD collection, he knew he’d spend a long time trying to forget how his home looked with her in here.

  Why in the hell did she get to him like this?

  If he had to get hung up on a woman, why not somebody who didn’t have the potential to make his life a living hell?

  Why did it have to be somebody he knew was keeping secrets from him?

  He had no idea.

  “You’ve got a nice place,” she commented without looking over at him.

  “Thanks.”

  If it had been any other woman, he would have joined her. Maybe stroked a finger down her arm, seen how she reacted.

  Now, as Shawntelle turned her eyes his way, he dropped down onto the couch and grabbed a pair of tennis shoes.

  She was dolled up like they were going out on a date.

  He’d deliberately gone for clothes as casual as he could without looking like a total bum. He was too vain for that and he knew it.

  “Are you ready?” Moving to the island, he went to pick up his keys, phone and wallet.

  But he stopped.

  As Shawntelle turned, saying something that went unheard, he found himself studying his personal items. Keys. Phone. Wallet. All three were there.

  Yet he had the weirdest feeling they weren’t as they’d been when he’d put them down.

  Slowly, he shifted his gaze, studying Shawntelle from under his lashes.

  She sipped from the water one more time and turned his way.

  “Absolutely.”

  Slowly, eyes still on her, he collected his things, tucking the wallet into one pocket, the phone into another. He grabbed the key ring and spun it around, wondering if he was being paranoid.

  He wasn’t certain.

  Shawntelle started toward him and dumped the water into the sink before rinsing the glass. Her breast grazing his arm as she turned to put the glass in the dish rack. “I hope you don’t mind that I got some water.”

  “Of course not.”

  She gave him a glowing smile and turned away.

  Con tightened his fist on the keys he held and wondered what in the hell he’d gotten into.

  * * * * *

  Shawntelle sipped the bourbon, eyes half closed.

  “It’s good,” she said slowly. “But I still prefer the original.”

  Con hadn’t bothered with one of the bourbon flights. He’d tried just about every bourbon to be had within a two-day drive of Bardstown, and that was turning into quite a bit.

  He sipped his personal favorite and watched as Shawntelle went through the selections she’d chosen, talking to him even though he had barely responded at all.

  His lack of response didn’t bother her a bit.

  She’d kept up a running, one-sided monologue, as if his reaction, or lack of it, had absolutely no effect on her.

  If he hadn’t been sitting right across from her, he might have believed that act, too.

  But he was pissing her off. He could tell.

  Something about the way her eyes went opaque, the way her mouth pulled into a tight, flat line, he couldn’t quite tell, but there was something. Something that told him she was pissed off.

  He almost reached out and touched the tips of his fingers to hers. Almost asked just what her so worked up.

  As though she was reading his mind, she said, “You’re not very talkative today. Where’s that inner charmer of yours?”

  “Tired.” He tossed back the rest of the bourbon and put the glass down, tapping on it when he caught sight of the server. He might just need to walk home. Then he mentally calculated the distance—no. He wasn’t walking. He’d have to call Shame. And…fuck, figure out something else for Shawntelle, because no way could he be in close personal contact with her without touching her.

  “Oh, come on. I already told you I wasn’t working for you anymore. And now you’re too tired to even talk to me?” She gave him a look of mock surprise.

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged. He almost delivered another lie, but in the end, he realized he’d told her the truth. Why stop now? He was tired. Kyle Mobley’s machinations had started turning lives upside down. Those lives had become something of a shit show, although Con had to admit that Riley and Bree had managed to find each other again.

  Still, he had no patience for bullshit, for games or manipulations.

  And that’s what this was—manipulation.

  She leaned forward, her eyes sultry and dark.

  Maybe it was because Con had spent so much of his life watching others, seeing the masks the people around him wore, but he could see through the mask she wore.

  Oh, the desire in her eyes was real, and something told him that pissed her off. She was attracted to him and she didn’t like it—that made plenty of sense.

  He was a guy who slept with women for money.

  Plenty of people wouldn’t get it.

  Of course she didn’t want to be attracted to him.

  But she was playing him.

  She was using that attraction, letting it come to the surface and trying to hide behind it so she could work some sort of story out of him. Or at least that was what seemed to hide just below the surface. He wasn’t entirely certain he bought it.

  There was something else—or maybe just something more—going on with her. He was still trying to get a handle on that.

  But one thing she didn’t understand about him—Connor Steele didn’t get played.

  * * * * *

  “Come inside.”

  He’d been expecting this.

  He’d debated what he’d say, what he’d do.

  He’d also wished like hell his brother or Shame would call, tell him he was needed at B&B, save him the headache of trying to figure out how to handle this.

  Nobody had called.

  His phone had been miserably silent.

  Now, as Shawntelle leaned against the door of his car and smiled at him, he told himself to get his miserable ass out of t
here.

  She moved in closer and pressed her lips to his ear. “I’m not doing any story on you, Con. You pretty much blocked me at all turns and if you won’t talk to me, neither your brother nor Shame are going to. So…I’m done. I’ll find something else. Quit worrying about it. Now will you come inside?”

  She drew back and stared at him.

  “You’re not doing a story?” he asked slowly.

  “No.” She held his gaze levelly.

  And damn his stupid ass, he believed her.

  She seemed to sense that he was getting weaker. Leaning in closer, she pressed her lips to his. He had next to nowhere to move, although he could have evaded her if he really wanted to. He just…didn’t.

  “Come inside,” she whispered again.

  Then she slid her tongue along his lower lip.

  He reached for the keys.

  She lifted her head and stared at him.

  When he turned the ignition off, he thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

  But then, as that slow smile spread across her face, he decided it was just smug satisfaction.

  He put the top up on the car before opening the door.

  When she would have wrapped her arms around him, he caught her wrists and shook his head. “You’ve been taunting me for about six weeks now. Let’s get inside.”

  “I haven’t been taunting you.” She poked out her lip. “I’ve been flirting with you.”

  “Teasing.” His cock was twisted at an uncomfortable angle and he was surprised he could walk, without hobbling, up the brick path to the little house she rented. “And for most of it, you were trying to get me to talk to you so you could write an article about…whatever.”

  He could feel the blush rising up to stain his cheeks when she looked at him. She had her keys in hand and her expression calm as she stared at him. “Whatever? I was planning on doing something about male prostitution, Con. If you can do it, you can say it.”

  She let them inside and dropped her keys into a little bowl by the door.

  “Pardon the shabby chic décor. It comes with the place. Which is how I like it when I travel. Less trouble for me.” She moved farther into the house, stopping to face him when she neared the couch. Leaning back against it, she smiled. “All the ruffles and flounces aren’t my thing.”

  “I didn’t come to discuss the décor.”

  “No.” She curled a finger, beckoning him.

  He prowled closer, feeling as if she had him on some sort of hook. He didn’t like it. When she would have kissed him, he averted his face and pressed his mouth to her neck.

  She hissed out a breath, her body arching toward his in a bow.

  He scraped the sensitive spot with his teeth and felt her shudder.

  “I…” She paused a moment.

  He took advantage of that and nuzzled her hair away from her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and giving it a tug.

  She shivered.

  “You were saying something,” he reminded her, sliding a hand up between them. She’d worn a white blouse, sleeveless, with five—exactly five—buttons that glittered with jewel-like brilliance. Now, he found the top button and slid it free.

  Her breath caught.

  Pulling back, he met her eyes.

  She was staring at his hand.

  He freed another button and moved down, taking his time and giving her a chance to end things.

  She never said a word, never moved.

  When he finished with the last button, he circled his finger around her navel, fighting the urge to stare at the lush, sweet curves of her breasts rising against the white bra. Her skin, a warm, soft brown, pebbled under his touch as he traced the scalloped edges of the bra. “This bra drove me a little insane. I could see this pattern,” he said conversationally. “And I kept thinking about undoing those five buttons on your shirt and spreading it open, staring at you.”

  “But you weren’t going to come inside,” she said, a challenge in her voice.

  He met her eyes. “Yes, I was. We both know that.”

  He waited for that smug smile to light her eyes. But it didn’t. She just reached up and touched her fingers to his lips.

  Grasping her hand, he sucked one into his mouth and watched her gaze go dark.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” he asked after tugging her hand away and lowering it to the top of the couch.

  She waved a hand off to the right. “Over there.”

  He boosted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. It put his cock in direct contact with the soft heat between her thighs and he clenched his jaw, hoped he wouldn’t do something pathetic, like come all over her the minute he saw her naked.

  He found the bedroom easily enough. The simple hall had only two doors and the one on the left was open, showing a bathroom. At the end of the hall lay her bedroom and he walked in, went straight to the bed and laid her down. As much as he wanted to crawl on top of her, though, he didn’t.

  He went to his knees beside the bed.

  She pushed up on her elbows, watching as he unbuckled the straps on her skinny-heeled sandals. After tugging them away, he rocked back onto his heels, then rose, his hands closed loosely around her calves. He kept the contact, firming it as he passed over her knees, then up to her thighs. When he reached the juncture, he stopped, his thumbs pressed to the crease where thigh and hip met.

  She rested on her elbows, watching him with her lips parted and her eyes almost glazed over.

  “Do you have condoms here?”

  She closed her eyes, shook her head a little, as if to clear it. Then she nodded. “Yes. Although I’m surprised you don’t have any.”

  He bent over her. She went flat under him and he didn’t need any more encouragement than that to cover her body with his, pushing his knee between her legs. “I would have, if I’d planned on doing this.”

  “I was planning on it. So I guess it’s a good thing I believe in being prepared.” She pressed her lips to his chin and tried to tug him closer, but Con once more turned his head to the side, focused on kissing a path along her cheek to her neck.

  Her fingers dug into his biceps as he continued, tracing one slow kiss after another down the silken column, then moving on to her collarbone, lingering there just long enough to hear her breath hitch before moving to follow the scalloped edge of her bra with his tongue.

  Shawntelle slid her hands under his shirt.

  The feel of her palms against his skin—just that simple touch—was more erotic than having another woman slide her tongue along his cock.

  Con couldn’t think of a woman he’d wanted like he wanted this one.

  He still didn’t trust her.

  But that wasn’t going to keep him from stripping her naked and feeling her wrapped around his dick.

  She shoved the shirt as high as she could, the muscles in her belly contracting and going tight as she twisted and tugged, and when it stuck, he pushed up onto his knees and tore it away. Before he could stretch out over her again, she lay back, the dense, thick curls fanning out around her head, and her breasts rose and fell with one ragged breath after another.

  “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he muttered.

  “I bet you say that to all the ladies.” She slid her hands up his chest, then smoothed them over to his arms, her left hand petting the tattoo that started on his right shoulder and went almost all the way down his arm.

  He didn’t respond to that. He’d told too many women they were beautiful. It had been part of the job.

  But he wasn’t with Shawntelle because she’d hired him. Yeah, she’d tried. He’d said no. That meant he was here because he wanted to be. He’d like to think it meant she’d understand that everything he said about her was real, that he meant it.

  He realized that was a stupid.

  Fuck him for being stupid.

  If he was smart, he’d pull back now.

  If he was smart, he’d avoid her until she left, which she’d said she would be doing
soon.

  But he wasn’t smart. He was desperate. He ran his thumbs over the silk of her bra, doing it slowly, dragging out the pleasure as long as he could. He didn’t look at her breasts, though.

  He looked at her face, held her gaze as he cupped the full curves in his hands, circled her nipples where they stabbed against the unlined silk.

  She moaned, lashes fluttering down as she reached up and covered his hands with hers, squeezing slightly.

  He followed the silent cue, plucking at her nipples, then bending down and taking one, then the other between his teeth, wetting the fabric with his tongue.

  She moaned and thrust her hips up, moving against him.

  His cock jerked in urgent demand, and Shawntelle, as if she could sense it, reached down, popped the button on his jeans, slipped her hand inside his boxers, and closed it around him.

  He could feel a few drops of pre-come leak out.

  Snarling inwardly, he caught her wrist, dragging it upward until he could pin it to the mattress near her head.

  “Let me go,” she said. The words were breathy, her eyes wide and unfocused with want. “I need to touch you.”

  “Too bad. I’m doing all the touching right now.” He pulled back, sliding off the bed to stand at the side, between her wide-spread thighs. Holding her gaze, he unbuttoned, then unzipped her jeans. She drew her legs together so he could pull them down and once he had them off, she started to shove down her panties.

  He caught her wrists.

  “Leave them alone.”

  She huffed out a breath. “You’re bossy.”

  “Yes.” Bending over her again, he gripped her hips, then pressed a kiss to her hipbones—left, then right—just above the silk that swathed those soft curves. She bucked against him when he nuzzled her and the moan that escaped her scraped across him like rough velvet. He could drown in her—the darkness of her eyes, the exotic scent she had slicked over her skin, the softness that met his hands everywhere he touched.

  Because he knew he’d break if he didn’t either taste her or move away, he slid up her body and focused on her bra. The front catch had been taunting him and now, he flicked it open. Her breasts swung free and he let himself look this time, eating in the sight of her.